“I wish I looked like you,” I said one time, watching my pretty mother curl her waist-long hair.
Mom raised her eyebrows at me through her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Why would you want to look like me when you look likeyou? No one else in the world looks like my Cass.”
I shrugged. “But you’re prettier.”
She put the curling iron down and walked over to me, getting down in a crouch so we were eye level. “First of all, buddy, that’s nottrue. Second of all, do you know what makes someone beautiful?” She pulled at my dirty sock playfully.
“No?” I said, wary of what kind of sappy speech I was about to get.
“How stinky their socks get.” I laughed. She went on, “How they pick which Doritos to take on a road trip. How many colors they can fit into a drawing. How loud their burps are.” And to punctuate it, she let out areallyloud one. I laughed so hard, I had to roll over onto the bed to clutch my stomach.
She chucked me under the chin before getting back up. “Those are the things that matter, Cassia. Don’t you forget it.”
Despite having a mother who instilled in me what was really important, I still love a beauty moment. But I’m very aware that Daniel takes a mere twenty minutes while I’m still in my robe, drinking a glass of champagne, and munching on hotel gummy bears (the thrill of being with a man who insistsLife is short, eat the hotel snacks). He’s got the patio doors wide open and is sitting outside reading something on his ebook reader, his bare feet propped up, his tie thrown over his shoulder, sunglasses on.GQwould probably style a celebrity exactly like this.
“I swear I’m okay getting ready alone! Go for a swim, catch a movie,” I say as I run a thickening lotion through my damp hair.
He throws me a look. “I came here to spend the weekend with you. And I enjoy watching you do all this stuff. The secrets of womanhood.”
“Wait until I reach deodorant application!”
Daniel smiles at me fondly before returning to his reader.
Nonetheless, it’s two hours later when I’m finally ready. I’m wearing a red satin dress with a corset bodice. The straps are delicate and tie at my shoulders, the ends dangling down my arms. It fits snugly at the bodice and hips, then the skirt falls to my knees,with two slits on either side. It’s vintage and more than a little come-hither—both felt right for this venue. My hair is set in voluminous waves and pushed over to one side, a la Veronica Lake.
Daniel’s expression when he sees me makes all the effort instantly worth it. “Wow.” He pulls me in, his fingers grazing the ties at my shoulders. “You look like a present.”
I flush. “Insert bad unwrapping joke here?”
The wedding is taking place in an ornate, high-ceilinged, wood-paneled room in the main building, complete with a stage and a spiraling staircase. Rows of hot-pink upholstered chairs are set up and the stained-glass windows let in colorful, diffused sunshine. I spot Ellis and Avery right away—both dazzling and young and beautiful—and we sit a few rows behind them. The ceremony itself is emotional and funny. Max is Mexican-American and Curtis is Arab-American, so we get a lot of cross-cultural nods. Tears are shed when Curtis’s father reads a Mahmoud Darwish poem and both their mothers light a candle. Daniel reaches over and squeezes my hand—because people without parents understand how bittersweet it is to witness such warm family moments.
Cocktail hour is in the lobby by the banquet hall and Daniel and I grab every hors d’oeuvre that passes us. We group together with the other guests from the firm. Which means Ellis finally sees me. I swear a cartoon sweat drop appears on his face as he tries not to have a reaction to my dress. I’m not proud of myself when I say this brings me intense pleasure. Especially when his date looks like a cotton candy confection in pink taffeta and tanned skin, just ready to be eaten up.
I grab something with a pastry puff involved off a tray and pop it into my mouth in an act of self-defense.
“Such a good ceremony, right?” Avery says, breaking the ice without any knowledge of ice existing.
“So heartfelt,” I say, brushing crumbs off my face.
“Those vows were so Max,” Daniel says with a knowing look to Ellis, who grins in return.
“SoMax.”
Avery looks between them. “How was it so Max?”
I cringe inwardly—making people explain inside jokes is painful. But Ellis does, patiently. I notice, though, he keeps his hands in his pockets, his body distanced from Avery’s.
Laura from the firm runs over to us with her harried husband, who is holding her jacket, purse, and heels (she’s barefoot now), to tell us we all have to take shots. Oh, god. I look to Daniel for help; he just gives me a shit-eating grin and shrugs. “We gotta.” He puts a hand on my lower back and leads me to the bar. I am aware of Ellis behind us and resist moving away from it.
Everyone from the firm is waiting for us and they hoot and holler. “Let’s get the bossder-runk!” the cute girl with the bob says, the one I remember from Joshua Tree. Her name is Sonya. We’re all handed shot glasses full of a brown liquid and I brace myself before throwing it back with everyone else. It burns down my throat and I try not to say, “Gross!” It’s mezcal, a liquor I truly hate. The smokiness of it haunts my nostrils long after it’s taken. Another round is poured and I tense up. I really don’t want to take this nasty shot. When I reach for my glass at glacial speed, it’s suddenly swapped out with an empty one. I look up to see Ellis holding a full shot glass and downing it. When I look down at the empty glass and then at him again, he gives me a little wink before stepping away. Oof. I resist clutching my chest.
Soon after, the doors to the reception are opened and I’m relieved. I can’t hang with these party animals. I need a meal and a chair.
The firm is all placed at the same table, but luckily, I’m seated ata distance from Ellis and Avery. After we’re settled and served champagne, the wedding party comes out to theGame of Thronestheme song, setting the tone for the entire night immediately. Max and Curtis dance their first dance to a beautiful acoustic cover of “Last Dance” by Donna Summer and then we’re served salads with wedges of beautiful ombre-colored citrus and slivered almonds.
After our table toasts, party-animal Sonya says, “Should we play ‘Never Have I Ever’?”
A bunch of us groan, including me, but she powers through. “Come on! We have free drinks, we have to play a drinking game.”
